CHAPTER XIII. 



A SPORTING TRIP TO FRANCE. 



;HE following are the outlines of a trip 

 two friends of mine took some few 

 years ago. I have of course dressed 

 them up to be presentable, but all 

 tho occurrences are true. 



London is empty. What the deuce am I to 

 do with myself ? Horses are of no use at pre- 

 sent, it is too late to fish, shooting won't come 

 in for two months, and hunting is ages off. 

 These were my thoughts as I lay idly on my 

 sofa, puffing at one of Morris and Co.'s (22, New 

 Bond Street) unapproachable cigarettes, one 

 melting morning the latter end of July. The 

 remains of my breakfast were on the table, and 

 the morning paper, that had been looked through 



